I can feel myself getting irritated. I’m over trying on all these clothes and having someone suddenly show up and start telling me what to do. I also don’t appreciate her trying to play therapist or whatever the fuck she’s doing.
“I can manage my life and relationships just fine, Miss Dyer.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to get involved. You’re right.” The silence is short-lived. “Was your dad disappointed when you didn’t choose the brewery?”
I toss the last shirt on the bed. “Did they hire you to psychoanalyze me or something? You show up here and somehow force me into doing this stupid model shit, and now you want to corner me before 8 a.m. in my own damn home and ask me if I regret my life choices? For fuck’s sake!”
I don’t know why I’m yelling. This whole exchange escalated in a matter of 30 seconds and it’s totally on me. But now I’m mad that I’m mad.
“I didn’t force you—”
“You did, actually! You told me I didn’t have to take you on a date and then threatened to go after Trent instead.”
I hear it.
I sound crazy and her expression tells me she hears it too.
“I threatened you? And now I’m going after Trent? Just because you’re weirdly jealous of your own brother and insecure about your decisions doesn’t mean it’s my fault. You made a commitment to me about this, so we’re going to see it through, but I’ve heard you loud and clear. This,” she motions between us, “will stay strictly professional and I won’t dare try to get to know you a little even though we’ll be working closely together. Excuse me for being friendly.”
This is what I needed: for her to realize that I’m not just a fun time while she’s here in Colorado. I’m not just some guy she can flirt with to not feel lonely or goad into doing what she wants.
I won’t be toyed with and tossed aside.
I don’t chase after her when she grabs her phone, walks out of my room, heads down the stairs, and slams the front door.